At Least the Trains Ran on Time
by Madigirl
Summary: I have always believed that there had to be more to Silas than a big, likeable, guy who liked to fight. He had to be intelligent to hold his own as a Horseman. He had to be more than that to live to be an ancient. Nothing is known about his history bet


Nestled away in the forest that spanned two nearly forgotten European countries, a small cabin shook with titanic force as a very large, and very angry man, exploded into the room, pushing open the door with such power that it hit the wall, sending the wooden bowls that sat there on a shelf flying in all directions. He slammed the newspaper onto the small table that stood in the middle of the one room home, and smoothed the wrinkles created by the vise like grip in which he had carried it on the three mile hike from the nearest village.

"Look at that, Elsa." He stabbed at the headline that read _ Twenty Years of Freedom_ with his forefinger. "They call me a monster!" Elsa, a yellow dog of considerable size herself, simply looked up at the man she loved and wagged her tail encouragingly. "It seems barely possible," he read, "that only twenty years have passed since the monstrous regime of Dimitri Silastrovich was overthrown by the combined efforts of The Citizens Militia and our glorious hero, Ivan Klimowitz."

The giant man shook his head and made a deep guttural sound that could have been laughter. "Hero." He rose and moved the few steps required to stand in front of the stove where a stew stood simmering. He reached to the shelf above, and took down a round bread. He tore the bread, and dipped a large piece into the stew. He took several bites and then threw the rest to Elsa. He smiled as he watched the dog gulp at the food. His smile turned quickly to a frown, however, when he caught a glimpse of the paper still sitting on the table. "Hero, they call him." He reached down and rubbed the soft fur of his only available friend. He was rewarded with a quick lick of acknowledgment before the dog continued on with her meal. "Traitor. That's what _I_ call him."

He sat on the bed that took up the side of the room farthest from the door, ignoring a disturbing creak, and, after making sure his axe was within easy reach, he lay, one arm resting over his eyes. Anyone seeing him now would be sure that he was sleeping, but, in truth, he was deep in thought. He found that he was often distracted by the sounds and sights around him, but if he could block them out, his thinking was clear and often insightful. He knew that there were many who would be surprised by this, but it mattered little. In fact, it had often proved useful, even in his dealings with his own brothers. When people expect little, it takes little to impress.

So it had been with Ivan Klimowitz at first.

"Dimitri Silastrovitch!" Silas looked up from his morning milking, his great face wearing a smile he did not feel. He had come to enjoy the simple act of farming, working quietly with animals, and coaxing the rich soil to give him enough food to sustain himself, no small feat, and to even to have enough left to sell at the nearby villages. He especially enjoyed the morning milking, his head resting against the soft sides of the big, quiet beasts, feeling their heart beats, his mind focused on nothing but the task at hand. To have it interrupted by this spindly, four eyed, miserable, little man was irritating at best. In another time and place he would have considered putting both of them out of their misery with a simple twist of the man's slightly oversized head, but here, and now, all he could do was look up and smile. The smile did become slightly more genuine, though, when he saw the weasel in man's clothing hesitate before carrying on.

"Dimitri," Klimowitz changed his tactic somewhat, creating a intimacy that had never been there. "I came by to tell you how much I enjoyed your speech the other night."

Silas turned fully around to face the little man, a look of slight confusion crossing his face. "I gave no speech."

"You most surely did." The smile Ivan was wearing threatened to take over his entire face. "You spoke most eloquently on the matter of the most unreasonable taxes we must pay to the Duke and his overstuffed entourage."

"I said that I refused to pay them," Silas said with a shrug. "They will not take that which is mine."

"Yes, yes." Ivan nodded his head so emphatically, Silas was sure that it would fly off his head and hit the side of the barn. He almost wished that it would. "That's exactly what you said. You also said that they could try, but that all they would be taking from your farm was their heads."

Silas looked at his axe, which was propped against the wall, within arms reach. "I almost wish they'd try." When Ivan winced just slightly, he smiled but turned back to the cow. "No one takes what is mine."

"And that, Dimitri Silastrovitch, is exactly why I am here." Ivan stepped closer, looking as if he would clasp the big man on his shoulder, but then stepped back when Silas looked up. Ivan had to clear his throat of the lump that had suddenly formed before he could continue. When he did his voice had become sincere, almost like that of a big brother. "You spoke for many people last night, Dimitri." This time the hand found it's way to the shoulder with no hesitation. "We, all of us, Dimitri, could you a man like you." So it was that Dimitri Silastrovitch, simple farmer, joined the Peasant Revolt and helped to create his first ever bloodless coup.

Silas's reverie was disturbed when the big yellow dog jumped on his bed and settled herself half way unto the mountain of his chest. "Yes, I know, Elsa, there was blood, but not so much as to disturb those little people, hardly any that wasn't necessary."

It is a sad fact of life that all change must come with sorrow, and so it had been with the Peasant Revolt. The first to go were not the lawyers, though Silas had no love of those, but the tax collectors, the very symbols of all that was hated. Silas had killed the first himself. The poor man had been set to die, tipped off that there were riches buried in the cellar of the Silastrovitch farm, riches that had never been taxed, nor used to pay off any official hoping to collect. In less than a week of letting loose the rumor, an Official of the Duke himself entered through the gate, bringing with him the official orders to seize the farm, and two armed men to ensure that the farm was duly seized. There were witnesses, of course. One cannot start a revolution without witnesses to the germinal event, and if the accounts were confusing... if, for instance, it seemed that at one point Dimitri had been shot and killed, and yet, rose to kill all who would invade his land, what did that matter? The revolution had begun, and had already found it's hero.

Silas made a disparaging sound, and looked down into Elsa's adoring eyes. "That one deserved his death." He rubbed the big dog's ears, causing her to moan with pleasure. "He would have had me killed for a treasure that never existed." He sighed and moved his hand back behind his head. "Too bad about the other two, though. They fought bravely. Still, they should have chosen their friends more carefully."

Other farmers and artisans, emboldened by Silas' example, and often by his presence, and that of his axe, began to refuse to pay. More Officials, along with a growing number of escorts, were killed. Within months the escorts became soldiers, and the peasants became an army led by a large, seemingly simple, man with an axe. Silas was in his element, once again embodying the very essence of war. If his current friend chose to use him to gain political advancement, what did he care? One ruler was as good, or as bad, as another. They would come and go, and he would endure. It wasn't until all but the very last of the soldiers, and only the Duke himself was left, barricaded in his castle, did he realize that he had the ability to take the power. He, for once, could be in control. He could make the lives of these little people more than existence. He could rule.

What happened next was all too fast, and maybe, in retrospect, all too easy. Agreements were made, papers were signed, and the Duke and his sort were all allowed to emigrate to the United States were they were practically worshiped by the nobility starved, newly rich, elite. Chancellor Dimitri Silastrovitch now sat at the seat of power, though he was slightly disappointed to learn that there was no actual throne, just a fairly uncomfortable chair behind a large, oaken, paper strewn desk. Ivan Klimowitz remained by his side, an advisor with a working knowledge of local and foreign politics, though now he had the lofty title of Secretary of Internal Affairs. Advisory committees were set up to give the people of the State a voice in government, and each committee was headed by man who's loyalty was proven, either by their roles in the revolt, or by their personal friendship with either Chancellor Silastrovitch or Secretary Klimowitz.

"It made sense, did it not, Elsa?" Silas slowly stroked the big dog's head. "The little ones had some say about those things they knew, and the job of ruling was left to those who knew how to rule. Everyone did what they did best. Everyone should have been happy."

Unfortunately, that which should be, very seldom is.

The first act of the new government was to rid the nation of it's oppressive property taxes. Silas himself stood at the balcony of the House of Administration, formerly the Duke's Palace, and announced that from that day forward no citizen would have to give up what they needed to survive in order to keep what they already owned. It was a strong speech, beautifully written by Ivan Klimowitz, himself, and given power by the booming voice of Dimitri Silastrovitch, who no longer seemed simple in any sense of the word. The people in plaza below shouted their approval, and the papers throughout the nation, and beyond, proclaimed the beginning of a new era of prosperity for the nation.

The law itself, however, read slightly differently than the selling of it on the plaza. When Silas had announced that no one would give up what they needed, he had been speaking literally. No one would be forced to give more than he really needed, but Silas knew, and Klimowitz readily agreed, that the little ones were not always in the best position to know what was truly needed to live, so taxes were not so much eliminated as adjusted. Some farmers, especially those successful farmers who had learned to make much of their holdings, and to increase them, found that they were now paying more than ever before. Bribery, once the cornerstone of successful farming for the large land owners, was nearly eliminated by heavy punishment, and strict enforcement, for both those offering, and taking. There was both prison time, and the fines, both of which grew larger with the size of the bribe. More people were caught offering than accepting, and farms were lost to the State, and the greater good. Whether the Officials of the State were exceptionally honest, or simply more clever than the farmers, mattered little. The affect was the same. Bribery became almost extinct.

"Is it my fault, Elsa, if some people cannot recognize a good thing?" Silas gently moved the dog and stood. Moving back to the table, he dipped a bowl into the stew. Retrieving the last of the bread, he sat and contemplated the paper still sitting on the table. "I suppose," he said, shaking his head at the inevitability, "it is human nature to want more."

The desk behind which Silas sat made even his gigantic physique look small. The desk itself was dwarfed by the mountains of papers sitting in neat piles, so tightly packed that it was almost impossible to see any of the desk beneath. Klimowitz would be in soon to give his daily report, explaining each stack of paper, using small words, and putting his own spin on the information. Then each report would be handed to him, with much pomp, and he would sign it with a proud flourish. It was good for everyone. Klimowitz thought he ruled the country, and in many ways he did, but Silas, who carefully read every sheet of paper that crossed his desk, and many of the ones that did not, knew exactly what he was up to at any given moment. He could help or hinder as he chose, working behind the very scenery Klimowitz had set up to act as a blind.

There was a quiet knock on the door and Silas looked up to see Klimowitz standing just outside the door, smiling apologetically. "I hope I have not come at a bad time, Chancellor." The weasel sounded deferential, but his true feelings were betrayed by the way he stepped in and began to sift through the papers before Silas had a chance to respond. "I thought that perhaps you might wish to finish this work early so that you could attend the opening of the new factory with a free mind."

Klimowitz stood quietly as Silas made a show of pretending to read papers he had already thoroughly reviewed. Finally, Silas signed the last paper with a flourish and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes, feigning an exhaustion he didn't feel. This would normally signal Klimowitz that Chancellor Silastrovich had no questions or revisions, and that the Secretary was now free to go about the day to day running of the country. It was a system that worked very well. Klimowitz assumed that Silas was, for the most part, an ignorant puppet, a fact that made it far easier for Silas to manipulate him with a carefully placed comment or question. Soon an idea that Silas had formulated would come from the mouth of Klimowitz, and Silas would applaud the man's genius as loudly as any member of the Council. In this way, Silas ran the country, without posing a threat to those around him. It was a technique he had learned from the most devious of his brothers.

Today, however, Silas made no comment, and asked no question, yet Klimowitz stood, silent and unmoving. Silas continue to sit, eyes closed, making the man sweat and pushing him just a bit off balance, as he was now forced to consider whether or not he could wake the great man. This, too, was a lesson taught by one of his brothers; that a small show of power was often more effective than the loudest roar. When Klimowitz was forced, at last, to tentatively clear his throat, Silas took a deep breath, let it out slowly, opened his eyes and moved his head only as much as he must to look his Secretary in the eye. "Was there something else?"

"Yes, Chancellor," Klimowitz had, of late, given up calling Silas by the more familiar Dimitri. "There is the matter of Stephan Ivanokov."

"Ah, yes... him." Silas looked up to the ceiling and slowly shook his head. Then, leaning forward until his folded arms rested on the desk, he asked, "He will be at the opening, no doubt."

"Of course, Chancellor. To not be there would be an insult to you." Klimowitz smirked. "Even I he /I would not be so bold."

"I should have known, then, shouldn't have I, eh Elsa?" Silas stared at the wall opposite his place at the table. "That sentence was the beginning of my end."

Stephen Ivanokov was Chairman of the Citizen's Advisory Committee to Industry. It was a meaningless title, to an officeless job, given as a reward to Friend of the Revolution. It was unfortunate, though, that no one had explained that to Ivanokov. He was a simple and honest man, who could not believe his good luck, and who vowed to work every day to deserve such an honor. Each day, like clock work, he arrived at the office ready to review production reports, to inspect equipment, to deliver inspiring speeches to the workers, whatever it took to make other countries look upon his country, and its people, with respect. His hands on approach made him not only well known, but incredibly popular.

A popular man in your service is a situation to be watched, and watched carefully, but, within reason, there are great benefits. People liked him, respected him, and, by extension, liked and respected Chancellor Silastrovitch. The little ones were willing to do more, work longer hours, for less pay to prove their worth to him and to their country. When a popular man openly speaks against you, however, he becomes a situation to be dealt with. And so it had become with Chairman Ivanokov.

"Chancellor Silastrovitch." There was no chair on his side of the big desk, so the man was forced to stand, hat in hand, after waiting nearly two hours for his fifteen minute interview. To his credit, he met Silas's glare without so much as a flinch. "With all due respect, sir. I feel that the Prisoner's Rehabilitation Program is a mistake."

"A mistake." The words were spoken slowly, as if they must have been heard incorrectly.

For a moment, Silas thought that the man would waver, but to his surprise Ivanokov stood his ground. "Yes, Chancellor, a mistake." He paused, obviously rethinking how best to express his case. "It is well known that you only want the best for your people, Chancellor, but bringing prisoners in to the mines and factories has taken jobs and income from honest, hard working citizens. Surely it was never your intent that good men, men with families to feed, should suffer."

"A good, hardworking man can always find work." Silas opened a folder on his desk and began to read, signaling that this conversation had ended.

Ivanokov stared, the shock of his beloved Chancellor's gruff dismissal evident in his widening eyes. "There are no other jobs, not for them." His voice grew angrier and his words more sharp as he continued. "These men have been in the mines and factories since they were children. They know no other life. Until you led the glorious revolution, they had no hope of ever knowing anything else." He looked down as he said the next words. " I know because I was one of them." He looked up again, tears fighting to break through. "You gave them that hope, Dimitri Silastrovitch. You told them that they were people every bit as important as the men who owned their factories." He paused as Silas closed the folder, but narrowing his eyes and almost visibly digging in his heels, he continued. "Then you brought in those convicts. Men who didn't care, not for the work, not for the country, not even for themselves. They are not being rehabilitated, Chancellor. They are being used... used to run your factories for next to nothing as good men and their families beg in the street." Stephan Ivanokov placed both hands flat against the desk, hat crumpled in his passion. "Surely, the great Dimitri Silastrovitch would not abuse his people so."

"Are you saying, Chairman Ivanokov, that I have hurt the people in my care in order to line my pockets?" Silas's voice, though quiet, carried a threat that caused Ivanokov to move his hands from the desk.

"No... no," he stammered, horrified that he had been so misunderstood. "I meant only that perhaps someone in your Council..."

Silas stood suddenly and slammed his fist against the desk with all the force of a hammer on an anvil. "Then you are saying that I am so simple, so very stupid, that I would choose thieves as my most trusted advisors." Stunned into silence, Ivanokov stood trying to find the words to continue. Before he could find them, however, Silas sat and once more opened the folder in front of him. "This interview is over." This time Ivanokov had no choice but to comply.

"I should have killed the son of a bitch then and there." Bowl, bread and paper were swept from the table in one swipe of a muscular arm. "How dare he... a miner with dirt still under his fingernails, speak to me that way!"

The cave in was perhaps one of the greatest tragedies in the history of the country. Nearly one hundred miners were injured, and twenty two more were killed outright. Officials could find no absolute reason for the explosion, but it was theorized that an unusual build up of natural gas was to blame. Tragically, the beloved Chairman of the People's Advisory Committee to Industry, who was inspecting a new hydraulic lift, was killed.

"The funeral was glorious though." Silas grimaced. "Much better than the one I was given."

People lined the streets as the funeral procession worked its way slowly to the cemetery. Stephan Ivanokov traveled in a style once reserved for the nobility. The flower strewn coffin sat in a glass sided hearse pulled by four stately coal black horses. This was followed closely by an open carriage in which the Widow Ivanokov rode with the Chancellor himself. Behind them, keeping a respectable distance, were the carriages of other Officials and celebrities.

At the cemetery, row upon row of chairs had been set up next to the grave, and people vied for the seats, with many more standing behind them. A platform had been set up on the other side of the grave, with a dias set for those Officials who had been invited to speak. One by one, they rose to sing the praises of a man who had given all for the country and for the people he loved. With each speech the man grew, until he had obtained mythic proportions. At last it was Dimitri Silastrovitch's turn to speak. He stood quietly, and, somberly, head down in deep thought, approached the podium. Dressed today in the somber suit of a common man in mourning, it moved many, just to see how a great man could show such respect. He looked out at the crowd, who watched as the giant who had once put terror in the hearts of the nobility, swallowed back the tears he was too manly to show.

"Citizens," Dimitri Silastrovitch outwardly swallowed back a sob, while inside Silas congratulated himself for creating an event where what would be remembered was not some dead miner, but I his /I words and I his /I sympathy. "We have come today to say our final farewell to a man who was not only a Friend of the Revolution, a friend to the people of this glorious State, but a close and personal friend of mine."

"Liar! Traitor!" Heads turned sharply, following the shouts that came from behind the crowd. Audible gasps were heard as the crowd parted to let Ivan Klimowitz through. "You killed him, you traitor! He saw you for what you were and you killed him!"

Surprised and confused to the point where words would not come, Silas stood behind the podium waiting for the security that did not come. He looked around him at the men that had worked beside him, with him, and for him since they had wrenched control of the country from the aristocracy. One by one they backed away and it wasn't until he saw the smiles that some of them could not conceal that he realize that he had been set up. Life since the Revolution had been good for these men, but not good enough. Silas had held them back, restricting their greed to keep the country running. They saw him as a situation. A situation that must be dealt with.

"Dimitri Silastrovitch, you are a traitor to the Revolution. I sentence you to death." With those words, words that would go in the history books, Ivan Klimowitz, leader of the Citizen's Militia, and glorious hero, shot Silas in the heart and in the head.

It was nearly a month later that a hungry, out of work factory worker broke into the plain wooden coffin, hoping to find some jewelry or identifiable memorabilia to sell. The surprise he felt lasted only as long as it took Silas to break the thief's neck.

"Still, it was not all bad, was it Elsa." Silas picked up the bowl, tossed the remaining bread to the dog, and, after one last look, crumpled the paper and threw it into the stove. "I have my little farm, my cows, and my privacy. I had some fun..." Ruffling the dogs ears, he picked up his axe, and headed out the door. "...and in the end, nothing has changed."


End file.
